The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK ®. George Barr McCutcheon

know how to do it any other way. I believe I’ll let you carry the pocketbook after tomorrow. Let me think; I knew a nice little restaurant down town. We’ll go there and then to the theater. Dan DeMille and his wife are to be in my box and we’re all going up to Pettingill’s studio afterward. I’m to give the ‘Little Sons’ a farewell supper. If my calculations don’t go wrong, that will be the end of the jaunt and we’ll go home happy.”

      At eleven o’clock Pettingill’s studio opened its doors to the “Little Sons” and their guests, and the last “Dutch lunch” was soon under way. Brewster had paid for it early in the evening and when he sat down at the head of the table there was not a penny in his pockets. A year ago, at the same hour, he and the “Little Sons” were having a birthday feast. A million dollars came to him on that night. Tonight he was poorer by far than on the other occasion, but he expected a little gift on the new anniversary.

      Around the board, besides the nine “Little Sons,” sat six guests, among them the DeMilles, Peggy Gray and Mary Valentine. “Nopper” Harrison was the only absent “Little Son” and his health was proposed by Brewster almost before the echoes of the toast to the bride and groom died away.

      Interruption came earlier on this occasion than it did that night a year ago. Ellis did not deliver his message to Brewster until three o’clock in the morning, but the A.D.T. boy who rang the bell at Pettingill’s a year later handed him a telegram before twelve o’clock.

      “Congratulations are coming in, old man,” said DeMille, as Monty looked fearfully at the little envelope the boy had given him.

      “Many happy returns of the day,” suggested Bragdon. “By Jove, it’s sensible of you to get married on your birthday, Monty. It saves time and expense to your friends.”

      “Read it aloud,” said “Subway” Smith.

      “Two to one it’s from Nopper Harrison,” cried Pettingill.

      Brewster’s fingers trembled, he knew not why, as he opened the envelope. There was the most desolate feeling in his heart, the most ghastly premonition that ill-news had come in this last hour. He drew forth the telegram and slowly, painfully unfolded it. No one could have told by his expression that he felt almost that he was reading his death warrant. It was from Grant & Ripley and evidently had been following him about town for two or three hours. The lawyers had filed it at 8:30 o’clock.

      He read it at a glance, his eyes burning, his heart freezing. To the end of his days these words lived sharp and distinct in his brain.

      “Come to the office immediately. Will wait all night for you if necessary. Jones has disappeared and there is absolutely no trace of him.”

      “Grant & Ripley.”

      Brewster sat as one paralyzed, absolutely no sign of emotion in his face. The others began to clamor for the contents of the telegram, but his tongue was stiff and motionless, his ears deaf. Every drop of blood in his body was stilled by the shock, every sense given him by the Creator was centered upon eleven words in the handwriting of a careless telegraph operator—”Jones has disappeared and there is absolutely no trace of him.”

      “JONES HAS DISAPPEARED!” Those were the words, plain and terrible in their clearness, tremendous in their brutality. Slowly the rest of the message began to urge its claims upon his brain. “Come to our office immediately” and “Will wait all night” battled for recognition. He was calm because he had not the power to express an emotion. How he maintained control of himself afterward he never knew. Some powerful, kindly force asserted itself, coming to his relief with the timeliness of a genii. Gradually it began to dawn upon him that the others were waiting for him to read the message aloud. He was not sure that a sound would come forth when he opened his lips to speak, but the tones were steady, natural and as cold as steel.

      “I am sorry I can’t tell you about this,” he said, so gravely that his hearers were silenced. “It is a business matter of such vital importance that I must ask you to excuse me for an hour or so. I will explain everything tomorrow. Please don’t be uneasy. If you will do me the honor to grace the board of an absent host, I’ll be most grateful. It is imperative that I go, and at once. I promise to return in an hour.” He was standing, his knees as stiff as iron.

      “Is it anything serious?” asked DeMille.

      “What! has anything happened?” came in halting, frightened tones from Peggy.

      “It concerns me alone, and it is purely of a business nature. Seriously, I can’t delay going for another minute. It is vital. In an hour I’ll return. Peggy, don’t be worried—don’t be distressed about me. Go on and have a good time, everybody, and you’ll find me the jolliest fellow of all when I come back. It’s twelve o’clock. I’ll be here by one on the 23d of September.”

      “Let me go with you,” pleaded Peggy, tremulously, as she followed him into the hallway.

      “I must go alone,” he answered. “Don’t worry, little woman, it will be all right.”

      His kiss sent a chill to the very bottom of Peggy’s heart.

      CHAPTER XXXIII

      THE FLIGHT OF JONES

      Everything seemed like a dream to Brewster as he rushed off through the night to the office of Grant & Ripley. He was dazed, bewildered, hardly more than half-conscious. A bitter smile crept about his lips as he drew away from the street-car track almost as his hand touched the rail of a car he had signaled. He remembered that he did not have money enough to pay his fare. It was six or seven blocks to the office of the lawyers, and he was actually running before he stopped at the entrance of the big building.

      Never had an elevator traveled more slowly than the one which shot him to the seventh floor. A light shone through the transom above the attorneys’ door and he entered without so much as a rap on the panel. Grant, who was pacing the floor, came to a standstill and faced his visitor.

      “Close the door, please,” came in steady tones from Ripley. Mr. Grant dropped into a chair and Brewster mechanically slammed the door.

      “Is it true?” he demanded hoarsely, his hand still on the knob.

      “Sit down, Brewster, and control yourself,” said Ripley.

      “Good God, man, can’t you see I am calm?” cried Monty. “Go on—tell me all about it. What do you know? What have you heard?”

      “He cannot be found, that’s all,” announced Ripley, with deadly intentness. “I don’t know what it means. There is no explanation. The whole thing is inconceivable. Sit down and I will tell you everything as quickly as possible.”

      “There isn’t much to tell,” said Grant, mechanically.

      “I can take it better standing,” declared Brewster, shutting his jaws tightly.

      “Jones was last seen in Butte on the third of this month,” said Ripley. “We sent several telegrams to him after that day, asking when he expected to leave for New York. They never were claimed and the telegraph company reported that he could not be found. We thought he might have gone off to look after some of his property and were not uneasy. Finally we began to wonder why he had not wired us on leaving for the east. I telegraphed him again and got no answer. It dawned upon us that this was something unusual. We wired his secretary and received a response from the chief of police. He asked, in turn, if we could tell him anything about the whereabouts of Jones. This naturally alarmed us and yesterday we kept the wires hot. The result of our inquiries is terrible, Mr. Brewster.”

      “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Brewster.

      “There can be no doubt that Jones has fled, accompanied by his secretary. The belief in Butte is that the secretary has murdered him.”

      “God!” was the only sound that came from the lips of Brewster.

      Ripley moistened his lips and went on:

      “We have dispatches here from the police, the banks, the trust companies